


Breathe Life Into My Lips, Lest I Let It Pass Me By

by C4t1l1n4



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Gen or Pre-Slash, Geralt is secretly soft, Ghost Jaskier | Dandelion, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Pre-Slash, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, if you will, mentions of Jaskier's shitty parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:14:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26906437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C4t1l1n4/pseuds/C4t1l1n4
Summary: Geralt finds a lonely ghost and helps him move on, just not in the way you'd think. (He ends up with a companion he wasn't intending to have)Based on that one Tumblr post: "No one visits my grave anymore."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 275





	Breathe Life Into My Lips, Lest I Let It Pass Me By

There's a distinct hint of sadness lingering in the air. 

He lies there on the ground, golden eyes staring at the leaves above him, shivering on the branches, moving between the breeze. 

The sky is a pale color as the morning sun peaks over the edge of the horizon, marking the start of the new day. 

But the colors seem duller, as something heavy settles in his chest. 

Pale white hair fans out on the ground beneath him, but he doesn’t move, oddly still, oddly trapped where he lay. 

Something tugs at the heart in his chest, pulls at the emotions he doesn’t have, and a thought ringing out clear in his head, in a voice he doesn’t recognize, but for a second categorizes as his own. 

_No one visits my grave anymore._

It’s Roach who pulls him back into his right state of mind. She snorts nearby his head, nibbling on silver locks of hair, and scares him into a sitting position. 

Suddenly, the sadness is lifted off his chest, and the world is no longer gray in front of his eyes. 

Geralt isn’t dead. 

He doesn’t have a grave. 

The Witcher turns to look at Roach like she might know something he doesn’t, but she’s wandered off somewhere nearby to nibble on blindingly green blades of grass. 

But he isn’t quite able to settle. Something uneasy, unresolved clings to his chest. And he can’t get those words out of his head. 

_No one visits my grave anymore, no one visits my grave anymore, No one visits my grave anymore…._

The voice, that no longer embeds itself in his mind like it was his own, bounces around in his head instead. 

So distinct. So defeated. So… sad. 

So once removed. 

And for some reason, Geralt can’t let that stand. 

It seems that Roach has caught onto what exactly her Witcher had in mind, or perhaps, she could feel it too. 

The pull in one direction, and pleading, begging, calling, someone to answer. 

It’s a tug that grips him so hard, for just the briefest of moments, it springs tears to the corners of his eyes. Ones that he wipes as he mounts Roach, ridding himself of them before they could fall. Witchers can’t feel after all. They can’t cry. Something else is at play here. 

It’s that something that almost has Geralt turning the other way, to follow the path he had intended to when he settled to sleep the previous night, but it's the sound of that voice ringing out once more, that has him following the tightness of his chest. A sound so real he’s not quite convinced it’s not being called from the other side of the clearing,

But, he figures, after all the life he’s lived, running away only prolonged situations and made them worse. 

Besides, what kind of monster could it be that he couldn’t face? 

——  
The next day’s travels are carried out almost mindlessly, robotically going through the motions, until he finds himself encroaching on a place he wouldn’t normally stray near. 

Sure, graveyards aren’t really news to him, but it’s so close to noble land, he grimaces upon arriving. 

Music draws him away from where he leaves Roach at the edge of gravestones, making his way further in the cemetery by himself. His swords rest a reassuring weight on his back, though he makes to move to draw either, curiosity overwhelming any natural instinct for aggression towards the unknown. 

Someone is singing, he realizes, as he draws closer. And suddenly, it hits him. It’s the voice. The mournful voice, crooning softly in the midday sun, weaving a tale of being left behind. Geralt stumbles to a halt when he reaches his destination, the tug at his chest replaced by that voice, ringing clearly out into the open air. 

A young man half leans against one of the headstones, back to Geralt, plucking at a lute. The Witcher takes another few steps forward and the playing peters out, and the man turns to face him, chestnut hair glistening in the sun. 

“Why hello there.” The man exclaims cheerfully, cornflower eyes shining brightly. 

Geralt doesn’t say anything response. Instead, he moves even closer, and eyes the name scrawled across the grave. He raises an eyebrow at the young man, no older than 18, reading the name skeptically. 

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.”

The man scoffs, rolling his eyes with obvious distaste. “Julian, please.” The name rolls off his tongue in a bitter tone, nose scrunching in disgust. “I go by Jaskier.”

“Jaskier.” The new name sounds better, fits better in his mouth, is like butter on his tongue. He eyes the fancy clothes, turquoise doublet, and cream undershirt, both slightly stained with blood. “You’re dead.” 

Jaskier levels him with a look that screams, _yeah, no shit_ , all the while managing to appear mildly unimpressed with Geralt’s revelation. “And? What are you going to do about it?” There’s a moment of silence, and it’s like Jaskier finally looked at him for the first time. “Oh. Two swords, white hair. You’re a Witcher. Should’ve known. Pray tell, dear Witcher, how _does_ one kill a ghost?” 

“You were sad.” Geralt blurts suddenly. Jaskier’s eyes widen in obvious surprise. 

“What?” He questions, taking a curious step closer, lute dangling by his sides. 

“You.. were sad.” Geralt repeats. “Lonely. No one visits. I woke up with your voice in my head.”

“Huh,” Jaskier muses, still surprised. “I didn’t know that was something ghosts could do.”

Geralt hesitates to voice his agreement. “If you’re a viscount,” he begins, earning himself an unamused look from Jaskier. “Then how come no one visits?”

Jaskier laughs as if it was a ridiculous question. “Everyone in the castle was happy to be rid of me. Dying is a more socially acceptable way to leave Viscountship than disownment.” Geralt doesn’t say anything, prompting Jaskier to fill the space. “I wanted to be a bard, could you believe that? I studied at Oxenfurt, graduated top of my class. Was planning on traveling. Jaskier, the traveling bard.” A bitter laugh interrupts his story. “And then I got sick.” He sighs. “And now I’m stuck here.” 

Geralt hums. “Ghosts usually stick around for very few reasons.” 

“What are you implying? That I have unfinished business? Should I go murder all my family in spite?”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth upturns just the tiniest of bits. “No, but it’s usually unfinished business or…” he trails off, stepping closer and flicking the body of the lute, the instrument twanging in protest. 

“Ow!” Jaskier screeches, holding his head in indignant anger. “What was that for?” He demands, taking a cautious step back. 

“They’re tied to an object.” Geralt finishes, staring imploringly at where Jaskier stands a few feet away. 

“So, I’m tied to my lute?” 

Geralt half shrugs, “It would seem so. Perhaps that _and_ you have unfinished business.”

“If not get revenge, then what?”

“Traveling bard?” Geralt suggests. “Songs yet to sing, life yet to be lived?”

“You mean,” Cornflower eyes dart around the grid of gray stone, something akin to life flickering to light inside them. “I can leave the graveyard?”

Geralt gestures to the entrance. “You can meet my horse.” 

For the first time since he’s died, Jaskier steps away from his headstone, and through the front gate, and unmistakable bounce in his step. It’s weird to smell his excitement, Geralt thinks, it’s like any other human’s just… duller, but no less potent. 

“So,” Geralt begins, settling himself by Jaskier’s side as the ghost coos over Roach. “Jaskier, the bard.” Cornflower eyes stare up at him in awe and wonder.

“Ready for an adventure?”

**Author's Note:**

> Not my normal fluffy stuff, but couldn't get the idea out of my head. Guess I just really love me some non-human Jaskier, huh?


End file.
